End of Us
by sondor
Summary: No one is certain how the virus started or why. All Edward Cullen knows is that he won't let himself be a victim to a plague intent on destroying the human race. And then there's also the issue of what to do with the stubborn girl he finds hiding away in a bunker... AU, OOC, E/B
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Stephanie Meyers owns all rights - no copyright infringement intended. I also don't own any of the Saw movies or songs written by Cigarettes After Sex.

 **END OF US**

* * *

 _You leapt from crumbling bridges watching cityscapes turn to dust  
_ -Apocalypse, Cigarettes After Sex

* * *

(EPOV)

Sweat drips down into my eyes as I pump my legs faster and faster, new sneakers wet with blood and hugging my feet as they pound on the pavement with each step. The heavy duffel bag slung around my shoulders cuts into my side, making it difficult to catch a breath. My searching gaze catches a glimpse of a familiar red bridge and I urgently push my body quicker towards it. The metallic sound of gunfire from somewhere behind me echoes through my eardrums and fuels my desperate need for safety away from this fucking chaotic city.

Everything just happened so fast.

Like most of the people in San Francisco, I heard the stories but didn't believe them.

The mention of a deadly virus spreading from the heart of Argentina to surrounding countries wasn't taken seriously because most people, mainly individuals found in America, rejected the idea of it ever reaching the border. The United States stay shrouded in its bubble of safety while the extremely contagious illness that Argentinians deemed _muerte negra_ -meaning black death- slaughtered its way through Bolivia and completely wiped out the population of Brazil before devouring Mexico whole in one, murderous gulp.

This new virus reached North America's doorstep within four days. Not many, including myself, realized just how gruesome the disease was, waving it off to be another swine-flu epidemic. Something that could and would solve itself with modern medicine.

That sort of thinking changed for everyone when a journalistic news station filmed a young woman on the side of the road in San Antonio, Texas - possibly the very same woman to spread it from Mexico to the states. At first all you see is the back of a girl's head as she writhes on the floor, face hidden behind messy and erratic blonde curls. And then as the camera zooms in, the girl shifts her head into view, shocking the rest of the world with the very first glimpse of _muerte negra_.

Black ooze drips from bottomless eye sockets where perhaps a pretty blue gaze should have been peering back instead. At first it looked like a rabid animal had bit mounds out of her face and left her to decay for several days in the texan heat. The only issue with that theory being the girl was alive not an hour before she was found. A gas station attendant confessed he saw her leave his store with a nosebleed, not thinking much of it, but admits he was mildly curious why the blood pouring out of her nostrils was as black as night. You can see it smeared on her face in the videos local new stations began airing, her empty eye sockets and lips layered with the same dark, sickening ooze. It even coats her neck and hair as some dribbles out of her ears onto golden colored locks.

Not once in my life had I ever seen anything so gruesome - and unfortunately I've seen all the Saw movies.

The media coverage in that town on that one girl was enough to send the entire United States into a panicked hysteria. This was not a form of swine-flu, but a cataclysm spreading with intent of human genocide. And at that point I think every person in America knew it. Riots formed across southern states, demanding the border be closed indefinitely as the disease began metastasizing from Texas to neighboring states. It was too late though as populated cities in the south were cleared out in just one day - Austin, Las Vegas, Santa Fe and Oklahoma City were the first to undergo failed quarantine procedures - and apparently everyone within those highly inhabited cities were pronounced dead on national news by that very night.

The world as we knew it spiraled into chaos. No one was safe from _muerte negra_.

And as it turns out, we weren't safe from ourselves either. On the second day the plague arrived on U.S. soil, massive riots bloomed across nearly every state, breaking their way through and tearing apart homes, businesses, orphanages - you name it - in desperation for supplies. People who weren't even infected were killed in cold blood for the things they had in their possession. It did not matter if you were a child or pregnant with one, if you had what they wanted, they would take it with force and murder anybody to refuse.

Though my body is warm with the energy I'm exerting, my blood runs cold as the gunshots behind me grow louder. My feet stumble but I regain my footing and push on. San Francisco went up in flames about an hour ago, every man in the city acting for himself when the news of the disease surpassing the borders of California went viral on social media websites.

That was the moment shit hit the fan in my small suburban neighborhood.

My parents had left two days ago for Sweden on a two-week vacation, leaving their seventeen year old kid alone in their giant house. It was supposed to be a kick-ass time; I was going to call up some buddies, maybe smoke some bud, definitely was gonna try to celebrate our upcoming year as seniors in high school in some form, preferably with alcohol. I was even teetering on inviting a girl over one of those nights to celebrate.

And once I was sure my parents were on the plane, I had grabbed my phone and was scrolling through my contacts with intent when the video of the curly-headed blonde on the television stopped me mid-swipe, her mangled face looping over and over again on the news. When the anchor lady explained that what the girl had was highly contagious and spreading quickly, I got my ass on the move.

I've seen enough movies to know how to prepare for an apocalypse and this seemed like one of those times. Staying here only meant death.

First though, I tried to call my parents. The line had gone straight to voicemail with every attempt. Frustrated that they were on a plane thousands of miles away and there was no way to contact them, I threw my phone onto the couch and stomped towards the garage. I'd try again later.

Inside the garage, I had found a hammer and a cordless, electric nail gun with three boxes of large nails - possible weapons to protect myself if I were forced to. Fear could make people crazy. Once I set them on the dining room table, I booked it up the stairs for a duffel bag, clothes, a sleeping bag, two towels, a flashlight, extra batteries, toothpaste and my toothbrush, along with the new sneakers my parents had gotten me before they left. I ran from room to room, grabbing random shit I think would help me in the long-run yet not slow me down. I took antibiotics and Vitamin C tablets from my mom's bathroom and grabbed a picture of the three of us from her dresser, stuffing it in my wallet on the way out. I had remembered she stowed an emergency kit underneath the stairs, and I rushed to that to see what was inside.

Gauze, medical tape, face masks, a fuck ton of band-aids, burn ointment, some more gauze, ibuprofen, and pretty much anything you could need in an emergency situation. She even put a needle and roll of suture thread inside of a baggie in the event of someone needing to be stitched up. Being married to a doctor can prepare you for the worst, I suppose.

I rounded up all my supplies to the dining room table, double checking I wasn't bringing things that were unnecessary for survival. I remember feeling a sinking pit in my stomach as the voice on the TV stated more and more people in Texas were being infected and dying at an increasingly fast rate. I promised myself I would leave the second _muerta negra_ reached California. No way would I let myself be a sitting duck for some fucked up plague.

The next couple hours had gone by like a blur as I raided the pantry for non-perishable food. I had made a meticulous list so that the items I took with me would last more than a month. I grabbed exactly twenty packs of top ramen, fifteen granola bars, a jar of peanut butter, one box of saltine crackers, six cans of baked beans, a dozen miscellaneous soups, and ten canned fruits like crushed pineapple and peach halves. I planned to incorporate as much Vitamin C as possible into my diet; remembering from history class how pirates in the sixteenth century would get scurvy from the lack of it.

I took one last swig of the nearly empty milk jug from the fridge and then repeatedly rinsed it out in the sink, filling it to the brim with fresh water from the filtered tap before twisting the cap closed and setting it on the nearly full dining room table. I also found a small saucepan I could take to prepare the soups and baked beans and added that to the pile as well.

Opening up the large duffel bag, I arranged all the cans and hard items on the bottom, placing the squishier items like my clothes and sleeping bag on top just in case I ended up having to carry it - I didn't want pointed edges digging into my back if I'm suddenly on the run. I planned to take my parent's car, but you never know what could happen, especially in a time like this. Once I had everything in the bag situated the way I liked, I found a chain with a clasp on the end in a random kitchen drawer and used it to secure the gallon jug of water onto a shoulder strap of the duffel bag.

I slept on the couch that night with the news on mute and the subtitles on, waking every three hours to check on the status of the plague and to eat preciously cold food from the fridge. Who knows when the next time I'd eat real cheese and fresh strawberries. Around ten I try my mom's cell again, only getting a dial tone in response with no option of voicemail. And it's midnight when I wake to see _muerta negra_ has slaughtered its way halfway through Arizona and is on a murdering streak towards California.

Sleep does not come easily after that.

At precisely four o'clock in the morning, the deadly virus claimed it's first Californian victim in San Diego. And five minutes after that, I had my sneakers on and duffel in the backseat of the SUV, the hammer in my lap and nail gun next to me in the passenger seat. Only after I've triple checked that I've locked all the car doors do I switch on the ignition and press the button above me on the visor that opens the garage door.

I stay cautious as I reverse and maneuver out onto the street, pressing the button again to seal the house once more. The sight of my suburban neighborhood immediately reminded me of multiple movies I've seen over the years and my heart thumps around wildly in my chest at the unorganized chaos. Every single house had some sort of commotion going on. People were screaming, crying, begging for salvation on each block. Parents agitatedly stuff their children into cars as a mob of homeless people walk on the sidewalks next to them. Some of the unlucky men branch off to enter abandoned homes in search of supplies, and when one mistakenly enters an unlocked yet occupied house, a fight breaks out and the homeless man is left unconscious on their front porch stoop.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I press on the gas slightly and move on, weaving in and out of all the frightened people crowding the road. I live only a handful of minutes away from the Golden Gate bridge but I know there's a possibility it will be too backed up to even attempt driving across. I'm sure I'm not the only one who wants to get the fuck out of dodge, but going North was my only logical option at this point and I had no other choice but to drive in that direction.

I'm forced to stop at a busy red light at the Lincoln Blvd. intersection. A lump forms in my throat when a random man steps off the sidewalk and begins beating his fists on the hood of my car. I try to ignore his gaze and the way he screams desperate pleas through the windshield, repeating to myself that there's no way I could trust a stranger during a time like this. He could take the car and all the shit I packed, or worse, he could be infected with the very thing I'm running from.

Once the light turns green, I edge forward and leave him standing there in the middle of the street with fat tears streaming down his face. My empathetic conscious battles with my will to survive, and ultimately, concern for my own well-being rules over all other thoughts. I could only hope he finds help elsewhere.

Traffic is complete fucking hell from that moment on. I managed to get underneath the 101 overpass but for the last ten minutes have been stuck bumper to bumper between impatiently honking cars, hardly moving an inch. There's a reluctant acceptance beginning to form in the back of my mind with each minute that drags on. This may be where I'm forced to part ways with my parent's car, and I was not excited about that idea at all. The bridge was almost two fucking miles long.

I let another ten agonizing minutes go by before I'm resolute with my resolve.

Taking a breath, I squeeze the car through the tight space in front of me and pull it over to the side. I exhale loudly as I reach back and grab the duffel bag, my heart stuttering with nerves once I have a grasp on it and have brought it over the center console to the front seat. Even though I know I'm stalling, I take a sip from the dangling jug of water and then raise the volume on the radio, curious to know where the the most recent plague victim was found. I get my answer almost instantly.

 _"Officials say that a massive_ _HO8_ _outbreak happened early this morning at the San Jose Airport. They are warning-"_

My blood runs cold. That's only an hour away. And they apparently gave it a new name, how fitting. It must have happened as soon as I left the house. Not sure if I have any more time to spare, I open the car door and hop out, slinging the duffel bag around my shoulders before shoving the hammer in between the slot of my jeans and belt. As I'm reaching inside the car one more time to grab the nail gun, I suddenly feel a cold pressure on my side.

"Give me your _fucking_ car."

I catch the dangerous tone of the deeply timbered voice on my right, meanwhile trying to keep my breathing steady as a very solid, and very real gun presses harshly into my ribs. Panicking does nothing for no one, and I repeat that mantra in my head as I raise my hands slowly above my head, sans nail gun. "I don't want any trouble," I say, "please - take it."

His gun lifts from my ribs and I nearly sag in relief. Still moving slowly, I step away from the car door, watching as a kid about my age, albeit beefier and stockier, turns to get into the driver seat. In a split second decision, I lower my left hand and thumb the hammer out of my belt as he's distracted, hiding it behind the duffel bag with both hands. I'm not sure how I predicted the prick would turn around and eyeball the rest of my shit with interest. I just knew that with people like this, nothing is ever enough.

He takes a step forward, handgun pointed at my face. "Sorry kid, I'm gonna need your bag, too."

 _No fucking way_. As he takes another step in my direction, I duck quickly underneath his arm and ram myself into his chest, forcing my left hand to the arm holding the gun and slamming it against the roof of the car. It's a beautiful sound when I hear the clatter of metal on the asphalt behind us. My right hand brings around the hammer hidden behind my back and in a moment of pure instinct, I bring the blunt end down as fast and as hard as I can on the top of his head. He immediately goes slack and I choke back the bile that rises in my throat as blood pours from the open wound in his skull. I stagger away from his limp body and cry out when his bloodied head falls on top of my shoes. This time I can't stop the strawberries and cheese I ate earlier from expelling from my stomach.

"Fuck." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and shake my head, shivering as I pull my shoes out from underneath his head, tucking the hammer back into its slot. He would have killed me once he regained his footing. I was sure of it. I didn't see any outcome where I walked away with my bag unharmed - and this bag was life or death for me. I wasn't willingly going anywhere without it. I've never killed a person before, but I've never stared down the barrel of a gun before, either. Both were equally terrifying concepts that I just lived through, and I can feel the effect vibrating through my veins as adrenaline kicks in.

" _Hey_!" A voice shouts from my right and I gulp against a dry throat as three people get out of a car stopped in traffic. It looked like they had pistols in their hands, and that very thought is followed by the loud sound of a a gun firing and then a bullet hitting and shattering the back window of the SUV. _Move, Edward, fucking move!_ The dead man lying in front of my car door is forgotten about as I bend at the waist to grab his gun, immediately sprinting down the road once the cold metal is in my grip. The bag on my back is heavy but the adrenaline coursing through my body basically eliminates any of the pressure I should be feeling.

And this is where I find myself - covered in someone else's blood and running for my life as bullets whiz by me.

I dodge in and out of stopped cars, breathing in steadily through my nose and out through my mouth. My mind had completely left the building and I leave it up to instinct as I rush faster and faster through rows of traffic, closing in on the giant red bridge directly in my line of sight. Sounds of gunshots mix in with the excessive honking emitting from three lanes of backed up cars, and I grunt when I hear heavy breathing and loud footsteps thumping on the pavement somewhere behind me.

The wind whips through my hair as I push my body quicker, using larger cars on the road to shield and deflect where my next move would be. I'm on the bridge in what feels like a couple seconds, still hearing the echo of angry shouts and being satisfied as the sound grows smaller with distance. After sprinting for another minute and making completely sure they've stopped their chase, I slow to a jog and place the gun in my waistband, continuing on the seemingly never-ending length of the bridge. There's an endless amount of honking as people try to get themselves and their families further away from the looming danger, and the urgency in the air stands the tiny hairs on the back of my neck straight up. Then reality really sets in.

I just _killed_ someone. I think. He was definitely unconscious. The fact I might have murdered another human being was daunting but I couldn't find it in myself to feel bad about it. Of course the act itself was the most horrific thing I'd ever done but it was all in self-defense. If he hadn't shot me, he would have killed me by stealing my bag, and honestly, I would be as good as dead without it. His friends were apparently not expecting a retaliation and that thankfully gave me enough time to make an escape.

About a mile into the jog and halfway across the bridge, I decrease my speed to a brisk walk so I can catch my breath. My chest heaves with each gulp of air, and I know the adrenaline has worn off as a tight knot springs in my side - most likely due to the heaviness of the stupid bag I just risked my life over. God, it was so fucking _heavy_. Groaning, I take a quick swig of water from the jug and let out a silent curse. Did I over pack? How far could I possibly make it with a bag this big?

A wave of sudden doubt crashes over my body as I obsessively dissect all the decisions I've made that led me to this point.

I'm lost inside my head for a couple hundred steps. Should I have left the house to begin with? I could have boarded up all the windows and doors with the spare planks of wood my dad tossed aside in the garage, but after I was done with that.. then what? I'd be locked inside my own home and would surely suffocate or starve myself to death. And with that thought I conclude leaving the house was overall in my best interest. I'd rather fight to live than turn to dust. While taking the SUV was a smarter idea of mine, I worry leaving it on the side of the road like I did trashed every other intellectual action I've made thus far.

But as I watch hundred of cars make very little progress towards their mutual goal, I perceive the realization that I'd be stuck just like them if I had stayed behind. Who knows, maybe that guy had already scoped my wheels out and had solid intentions to take it before I even thought to pull over - perhaps choosing to leave the safety of my car actually ended up saving my life.

I would never know. And I guess there was no point dwelling over it.

My lungs seem to expand easier with each breath taken once I've made peace with my decisions. All I had to do now was keep moving forward and attempt survival as long as I can. My legs begin jogging on their own accord and I soon find myself at the curved end of the bridge. Sweat coats me likes a second skin but that doesn't stop me as I run along the bend and squeeze myself through the final cars.

What lies ahead stops me in my tracks. Men in police uniform block the highway as a crowd forms in front of them, a couple hazard signs propped up in the middle of the road read ' _ROAD CLOSED_ '. My heart stutters. What sort of fuckery is this? They aren't letting anyone leave the city? People behind me are steadily getting out of their cars and lunging forward to harass the police officers with questions, and I creep along the edge of the chaotic mob, hoping to hear an explanation.

"Get back in your cars!" one officer shouts while another simultaneously screams, "Get the fuck back!"

More and more people flock to the blocked off end of the bridge. The mass amount of them effectively outnumber the dozen officers blocking their chance at survival and I know it's only a short while before violence is instigated. I edge further and further along the outside of the crowd, thinking that maybe if a fight does break out, I could use the distraction to make a break for it. The duffel on my back feels like bricks of gold and I heave a steady breath, adjusting the straps digging into my shoulders.

The desperate screams of the people around me rises in volume, and I flinch and hug the railing when an even louder noise in the air trumps over the mayhem happening on the street. I raise my eyes to the sky just as five jets in a 'v' formation soar ear-splittingly overhead. My throat dries when they head closer to the city and bank upwards about a mile or so after the bridge. What the _fuck_ is going on? Why are _five_ _jets_ in San Francisco?

For a moment, there is silence as everyone on the street stares up at the fighter planes. I can almost imagine the collective sigh of relief from the crowd when they disappear into the clouds. I look over at the police officers to see them scratching their temples with bewildered looks on their faces and it's obvious to me that they're unaware why these jets are here, either.

It's only quiet for a blissful couple of seconds before the horde of concerned and scared citizens resume their incessant questioning.

But amidst the sounds of people shouting and cars honking, babies screaming and dogs barking, I hear the rumbling of roaring jet engines becoming louder and louder again as they lower from the clouded sky. I look upwards, my jaw popping open when I see the leading jet perfectly aligned with the Golden Gate bridge, and my eyes widen when two others branch away from the group and head towards the Oakland Bay bridge. I have a sickening thought that Interstate 80 is as blocked off as this one is, and I take two steps backwards once I put two and two together.

This is their quarantine procedure.

Hatches on the belly of the remaining jets fly open as soon as that thought passes through my mind. The three of them near closer and a horrified scream bubbles in my throat when small gray looking tic-tacs project out of their open hatches and nose-dive into the starting point of the bridge, steadily dropping them along the entire length of the structure. The ensuing dramatic explosions shock me to my core, and I feel the ground shake and move underneath my feet like a violent earthquake. _Oh my fucking god_ _, what the fuck!_

Massive explosions go off with every second that passes and I force my rooted feet to move backwards though my gaze stays trained on the wires holding the bridge together as they begin snapping with the brunt force of the bomb's detonation. People next to me push and shove their way past the barricade of police officers and as one final bomb blows up, the bridge begins shaking with the effort of staying upright. A crack forms in the pavement between my feet and I watch as the road in front of me crumbles into the angry ocean below.

I swallow back a scream and twist my body to propel myself away from the disappearing bridge, gripping onto the railing next to me as I force myself through a tight opening found between the crowd. My giant bag helps me push through and as I look behind me one more time, I see the ground literally vanishing with every running step I take. _Shit_!

My heart leaps into my throat. I push my legs off the crackling pieces of pavement and forcefully throw myself into the air as the entire bridge gives way and collapses into the water. I land on solid ground at the last second, my face smacking against asphalt and belly immediately tenderizing upon impact. And as I roll over onto my side and stare down at my feet hanging off the ledge, I know if I had jumped even a second too late I would be sinking to the bottom of the ocean along with all the other poor souls stuck on the bridge.

A dry heave rocks through my body, but I had already emptied my stomach earlier so nothing comes out except spit and choking noises.

I can't believe that this happened - that the government would order their own jets to bomb infected cities. _This_ is what they had to have done to Santa Fe and Las Vegas, I just know it. My body is shaking from shock, my fingers numb as they grip at the asphalt. I'm able to drag myself away from the ledge using my forearms, meanwhile slowly taking in my surroundings with unconcealed horror.

Heartbroken family members fall to their knees near the ragged edge, shrieking their pain and loss and confusion at the water below them. A man on my right limps and groans, his foot very obviously snapped at an odd angle. Seeing him wounded makes me pat myself down though I don't feel any pain other than the scratches on my stomach and a slight headache. I check my legs and arms thoroughly, fearing I may have hurt myself without knowing it.

The screams and sounds of explosions coming from the Oakland Bay bridge stops my movement and chills my bones. It's so loud, even though the distance away is nearly six miles, and I'm frozen in my spot as jets roar above and disappear into the clouds once more. I watch as the bridge on the horizon crumbles as viciously as the one I just leapt from, the screams silencing ominously once it has completely disappeared underneath the waves.

So many people... dead, just like that.

I manage to shift onto my knees and adjust the duffel on my back, reaching for the water jug and easing my aching throat with a large gulp. My fingers shake and I form them into fists once the cap is back on, squeezing my eyes shut when tears threatens to spill over. This was all so _fucked_.

Four words repeat in my mind on a loop and I try my best to focus on them, breathing in with each word and exhaling out with the next.

 _Stay calm. Go north. Stay calm. Go north._

It almost works until my eyes snap open as the now familiar sound of approaching jets fills my ears. I'm on my feet in an instant, taking wobbly steps back as the five planes from earlier come into view above me. I expect their hatches to open over our small group of survivors once they're parallel with us, however I'm thankfully wrong as they speed by us towards the city.

My relief is only short-lived.

The jets form into a straight line and open their hatches one after another, and I'm not the only one who screams when bomb after bomb begins dropping from the openings of their bellies and onto the city below. I hear the ricochet of explosions as they expel hundreds of them from the coastline to as far back as I could see. Houses and businesses are destroyed upon impact and skyscrapers plunge towards the earth when more than one explosive bomb hits them. Dozens of mushroom-like clouds erupt into the sky and my heart squeezes inside my chest, lungs gasping back sobs.

The tears I tried to hold back earlier run freely down my face as I watch the city I love and grew up in go up in smoke.

A cloud of debris forms around San Francisco, a strange silence coming from within. I couldn't pick up any sounds of jet engines but that didn't mean I was any less wary of them returning over here to finish the job. The veil around the city clears and I'm absolutely horrified to see not even one building left standing - not a single sign of life on the other side of the water.

My city was nothing but dust.

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 **A/N:** Holy apocalypse, batman! I know, _I_ _know._ I'm still in the middle of writing my first story, Selcouth Cosmos, but this just _had_ to be written. I found inspiration from the song Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex, which sadly I do not own, and each chapter will be based off consecutive lines from it. Check the song out if you have a chance, it is b-e-a-utiful. I've only been to San Fran once, went just to see Alcatraz, so I'd like to thank Google for helping me map things out and also for teaching me how to prepare for an apocalypse. Good thing E is strong and able to carry all that crap because I would have never made it across the bridge! Updates will most likely be every two weeks as they will be _looong_ chapters, this one was 16 pages on MW lol, and SC takes up most of my attention ;) thank you for reading and Happy New Years! -sondor

 _muerta negra_ : black death


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Stephenie Meyers owns all rights - no copyright infringement intended. I also don't own any Volvos. _Sad face_.

 **END OF US**

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 _Filming helicopters crashing in the ocean from way above  
_ \- Apocalypse, Cigarettes After Sex

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(EPOV)

I'm not sure what possessed me to slip my phone out of my back pocket. It was sort of a zombie-like motion. I could hardly believe the scene in front of me and I force my shaky hands to quit their trembling while I snap a couple photos of the destruction - my form of proof to what I just went through. There's only about a dozen survivors left on this side of the fallen bridge and the group of us are in a daze as we stare out at our annihilated city. I'm sure we're all thinking that this can't possibly be real, and as I look down at the pictures I took with tears falling from my eyes, I'm torn to know it is. My friends... my house, even my school... just _gone_.

My fingers grip my phone tightly, and that hand slowly raises in the front of me when a new sound fills the sky - the remaining people still standing around swivel their heads towards it. Propellers chop through the air, the noise nearly muted as a helicopter begins taking shape through the smoke. I squint my eyes at the inscription on the side when it turns, seeing what I believe to be a news station logo. Thoughts of where they came from loop through my head, and I wonder if they're covering a story of what those jets just did; the rest of the world would need to know what happened here today so they could escape before a higher power bombs them down.

I should walk away like the others are beginning to do, I know I should. The virus will catch up eventually. But instead I stand frozen, my chest pounding, as the helicopter rises higher and higher into the air, finally clearing the smoke and gunning it across the water. The light from the hazy sun glints off metal, and I muse that it's like a shiny beacon of hope as it heads farther out into the Pacific. It's almost beautiful, in a way.

A million goosebumps cover my arms in reaction to a different and familiar set of engines overtaking the sound of propellers.

My gut churns.

 _Oh no._

A jet soars above me and my thumb automatically presses the bottom of my phone, tapping the small button on the screen to begin recording. I did it without thinking, almost instinctively. Though I wasn't conscious of it at the moment, I knew I wanted solid evidence of what these government planes did to innocent people - how they slaughtered them like cows out of fear. I needed visual support for how sadistic and cowardly these fucks were, so I wouldn't have to fall asleep at night wondering if everything they did was a dream or not.

It's obvious what's about to happen as the plane nears the helicopter. And another tear slides down my cheek at the reality of it all.

 _Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!_ The wickedly loud sounds of a gun firing and connecting with metal and glass smothers my gasp. I drop to my knees, my phone still pointed towards the scene in the air, and watch in silent agony as the last shot hits the engine and instantly causes an outward explosion. Propellers and mangled metal fall from the sky in a ball of fire, brutally hitting the ocean with a loud slap and a whispered sizzle. The rumbling sound of jet engines and turbines disappear into the clouds a final time.

The last hope of getting out the story the world needs sinks to the bottom of the Pacific - the pit in my stomach sinking right along with it. There's a strange sound taking over the sudden silence around me, and after a few moments I realize the noises are coming from me as I heave in breaths and sputter out weird keening whimpers.

 _Was I... Was I sobbing?_

I honestly couldn't remember the last time I cried this hard. Years and years ago. I had no reason to cry then. My life was perfect until now. I was a shoe in this year to be captain and quarterback on the varsity football team; I had made the team my freshman year. I knew my passion and I did it well. My mom and dad were doting parents to their only child, and having my two best friends -Emmett and Jasper- over all the time was like adding another two siblings to the family. Our family was complete. _I_ was complete. I was whole. I was never lonely and rarely ever alone. Girls loved me and my stupid hair, and they always seemed to naturally flock to me at school. And despite it being annoying sometimes, I was _happy_.

And now everyone and everything, along with what could have been my life, is like smoke after a fire. Drifting through the wind, and never to be seen again. I feel it in my heart, in my bones, my soul. Nothing would ever be the same after today. It's a crushing weight that pushes and pushes and pushes until it rips a hole through my chest, leaving only a numb emptiness where my heart should be.

My stomach reacts violently and I dry heave between my hands outstretched on the pavement.

I feel weak under the heaviness of the duffel bag on my back and I want nothing more than to shrug it off and place it under my head so I could fall asleep and forget about how fucked up the world was right now - but I know, _I know_ , my survival rate would drop at least halfway if I stayed. I had to keep going north, find shelter. There was nothing left for me here.

 _Stay calm. Go north._

* * *

The sound of my own footsteps keeps me aware and awake, even as my eyelids start to droop and my mind begins to shut down.

I had been walking for at least six hours now, heading north and following the highway signs to Washington state. The gun in my waistband is like lead and my fingers twitch for it when random noises in the trees spook me. The smoke from the city blocks the sun and emits a hazy dimmed light, making it appear -although it's nearly noon- that it's twilight. The eerie atmosphere it creates raises the small hairs along my neck and I lighten my steps, paranoid someone was following me.

No cars have passed since I began the trek away from San Francisco. Not a single one. I happened to stumble across an abandoned clunker on the side of the road, even tried twisting the key left in the ignition, but wasn't surprised when the engine refused to turn over.

The bag on my back becomes heavier and heavier with every mile I put between myself and the city. My feet ache and my mouth is dry. I've already drank a third of the water out of my jug and I resist the temptation every minute to drink more. I wasn't sure when I'd find a source of clean water so I was trying to conserve it as much as possible. My coach would swear up and down that dehydration was the worst thing you could do to your body, and though I despised it, right now I had no choice but to suffer from dry lips and a parched throat. I promised myself that in an hour or two, I would take a much deserved sip.

I approach a large green sign about half an hour later, the white words spanning across it read ' _Novato exit: one mile_ '. I nod inwardly and continue walking; I was getting closer to another highly populated city. The possibility of locating shelter or finding a car raises with that knowledge and I keep my hopes up while I drag my feet onward, although the risk of getting infected lingers in my mind, I shove it aside. My shoulders are rubbed raw from the straps of the duffel, and groaning, I reach around and swing the bag to my front so I'm carrying it like a newborn. The relief on my back is immediate and I revel in it for a short while my arms carry the load.

Another mile and twenty minutes later and I finally reach the Novato exit, but before I veer off to follow it, a glint of a reflection in the distance captures my attention. I step towards it slightly, thinking I see the shape of a black car, and before I know it, I'm shrugging the duffel bag back onto my aching shoulders and half-jogging towards it. The outline of it becomes clearer as I near it and I'm stunned to see a pristine dark blue 2017 Volvo seemingly abandoned on the side of the road. The driver side door was open, and my stomach rises into my throat once I catch the sight of a leg sticking out.

I stand there for a second, waiting for it to move.

It doesn't.

I round the bumper of the car and edge closer to the shadow of a slumped body in the front seat. My fingers twitch near my waistband, my heart pounding, both just standing by for the moment the guy decides to jump out at me.

He doesn't.

I breathe deeply to prepare myself and then step nearer to the door. The dude is older -probably nearing his sixties- and he's slouched back against the seat, one foot out the door with both hands clasped over his heart. There's no black mucus streaming from his nose or empty eye sockets like I expected there would be.

Instead, I see a man who had suffered a heart attack trying to escape from the virus.

My eyes take in his balding head and pasty skin, and part of me is glad he didn't have to experience symptoms of _muerta negra_ \- or HO8, whatever it's called now. The other half of me, however, is saddened he never had a chance at survival in the first place. Death seemed to call to him, no matter what. Sighing and looking around the passenger and back seats, I take note he was a light packer and only had a couple water bottles. From what I could see, at least. The trunk could be packed.

After I've convinced myself I'm already going to Hell, I reach down and tug his feet. Hard. He barely moves an inch and I grumble a curse under my breath - he was at least twice my size, and I was sort of large for my age. I vigorously pull on his ankles and bit by bit, he comes tumbling down from the seat. I step back at the last moment and look down at his withered face sadly. If he had a family, I hope they're all alive and well, and I hope that they were his last thoughts before he moved on.

But much like the helicopter, my hopes had a tendency to crash and burn.

I unwrap the duffel from around my shoulders and shove it into the backseat, simultaneously reaching down to grab a water bottle. I've chugged it completely before I even reach the driver side door yet my throat stays parched. I timidly sit my ass down on the seat where the dead man had sat minutes ago, and softly rubs my hands along the leather steering wheel. It felt weirdly right.

The key is in the ignition, and unlike the shitty car I left miles back, I'm certain the engine in this baby will come alive once I've turned it over. My thumb and finger hold the key delicately, and with a twist, the car gloriously roars to life. My eyes widen at the sound and I jerk my fingers back in shock, rubbing them roughly through my hair and over my face.

And for the second time today, tears stream down my cheeks and off my jaw.

But this time it was for a different reason. These were tears of relief that my hopes didn't go unanswered. That I didn't escape the city and survive a mass bombing just to die, but instead, I found a vehicle; and at the same time, I found another chance - another reason to keep going. I wasn't sure how long I could have continued on carrying that bag and I was mostly certain I wouldn't have found shelter by nightfall, either.

If this old man hadn't died, I surely would have.

After wiping away the wetness on my face, I flick the button that unlatches the trunk and then jumped out of the car, carefully stepping around said old man on the ground. I open the trunk, consecutively placing a hand in my hair in awe of what I see there - six full gas cans lined up in a neat row along the back, a bundle of blankets on the left, and cans of food and protein drinks on the right, along with a whole case of water bottles. I don't move for a couple seconds, completely shocked still by how this guy's untimely misfortune somehow ended up working for me in the long-run.

I close the trunk, smiling softly to myself despite the guilt and anguish threatening to rip me apart.

* * *

My body is numb.

And so are my thoughts, feelings... _everything_.

I've been driving for nearly seven hours, avoiding bridges and taking back roads to evade the traffic jams I'm sure are beginning to trickle in along the coast as the virus spreads further and further north. I feel like I'm playing a game of cat and mouse, always staying alert for the incoming claws and teeth I know are only so far away from me. I'm aware that I need to rest, my eyes are demanding it, but I drive on until the sun sets and the moon rises in its place. My fingers seem permanently molded to the wheel, and when I finally find a spot to bunker down somewhere in a field outside of Eugene, Oregon, they remain in a curved position until I'm able to stretch them out.

I take my sleeping bag out of the duffel and a fuzzy blanket from the trunk, folding it repeatedly until it almost resembles a pillow. I'm too tall to sleep in the back, so I lean the driver seat all the way it could go before sitting down and wrapping myself in the sleeping bag, placing my makeshift pillow underneath my head. And it's not until after I've munched on a granola bar and a dry pack of ramen, do I feel the overwhelming need to shut my eyes. I triple check I've locked the doors before allowing myself to relax against the seat.

Every inch of me felt drained and exhausted, the events of today taking its toll. I want to succumb to the sleep I know I need, but my ears pick up each sound that echoes inside the car from outside and I can't help the paranoia that seeps through my thoughts.

But even as I fret internally, my eyes begin to shut on their own accord, the fatigue within me taking over completely.

I breathe out a weary sigh, and then... I'm asleep.

* * *

My tired eyes peel open the second that sun rays filter through the windshield and shine upon my face, the brightness shocking me awake from a dreamless sleep. I reach quickly for the gun hidden underneath the duffel bag and look around me cautiously, calming and releasing it once I realize I'm in the middle of a field and safe.

I'm alive, in my sleeping bag, after spending the night vulnerable inside of a car.

Every muscle in my body was fucking sore, but I was _alive_.

Once I chow down breakfast (a can of peaches and a granola bar), I pop open the trunk and retrieve one of the many gas cans stored there. The car was at a full tank when I started driving yesterday, and now it was leaning precariously close to E. I chose to remedy that issue now while I was safe instead of later when I may not be. I use the entire can, afterwards reaching across the wheel to switch on the ignition and watching as the gas gauge meter rises just underneath F.

Satisfied, I tossed the empty can inside the trunk and then eased myself back into the driver seat. As I begin driving, I calculate that I'm only four hours away from Seattle, and though it's always been a place I'd like to visit, I decide I want to be as far away from that area as I could get while still heading north. It had _quarantine_ written all over it. The mass amounts of people there had no idea what would happen if the virus spread to their city and my heart squeezes, wishing I could warn them. I had the pictures and one video on my phone as proof of course, but since yesterday, I've failed to reach a signal.

I choose to drive west of Seattle, on the opposite end of the Puget Sound and closer to the coast. I'm happy with my decision in the end, as there is little to no traffic whatsoever along this route.

The hours fly by and soon I'm winding down twisted and curved roads, wholesomely surrounded by _green_. I had never seen anything like it. The trees back home in San Francisco were planted accordingly to the organized landscape of the streets and buildings. They were tidy and clean - nothing at all like this. The towering trees around me now have massive and oddly bent trunks, bright green moss covering nearly every single surface of brown bark; the leafs atop are wild and untamed and they hang over the road with their fullness.

It's almost indescribable how relieved the nature here makes me feel and I lower the window slightly to breath in the fresh air.

And I almost feel normal for a second until I realize nothing is.

A small green sign catches my eye and I read it out loud. "Forks," I say to myself, testing it out. _What a stupid name for a town - was Spoons already taken?_ I'm about to chuckle to myself when I read the smaller letters beneath it: _'p_ _opulation: 3,783'_. I hum, slightly interested. I'd never been in a town with less than five-thousand people before and something about checking the area out enticed me so much so that instead of following the main road like I had planned, I steer off onto a random road and pray to the heavens that I don't end up regretting it.

I pass through empty street after empty street. Some houses had cars parked out front, most did not. It was basically a ghost town. Had the virus already reached here? But then I see shutters move from behind a window of one of the houses on my left and it's then I presume the people who are still around are most likely hiding and don't want to be found. I see how nearly deserted this town is and I wonder - would the government bomb it if the virus spread to the remaining people here? Or was it too small of a town to care about?

I'm stuck in my thoughts and when I finally come to, I note that I've been driving aimlessly without really thinking of where I was going.

 _God dammit, Edward._

Sighing, I pull over to the side even though it's completely unnecessary since the cars driving around on this road were non-existent. The action is habitual I suppose, and I carry on with it, shifting into park once I'm fully stopped. I reach around my seat and feel in the duffel for the box of saltine crackers, grabbing it once I get my fingers around it and bringing it to my lap. I've ripped open a bag and am in the middle of reaching my arm back again for the jar of peanut butter, when my eyes zoom in on hidden pathway farther up the road. Like, it was really hidden, like someone intentionally placed the bushes and branches that were in front of it so no one would see it when they drove by.

I only noticed because I pulled over.

Frowning, I drop the peanut butter back into the bag and set the crackers onto the passenger seat. My growling stomach is forgotten as I maneuver the car forward until it's in front of the bushes. Looking around me for an audience and seeing none, I unlock the doors and jump out, rounding the hood and walking closer until I'm able to see behind the thick vegetation.

A steep, enclosed gravel road heads down through dense shrubbery and to the right, eventually veering off in that direction until I couldn't see it any further. I place my hand on the bush to try and get a better look, and swallow back a gasp when my fingers connect with a solid material amidst the leafs. _A hidden gate_! I feel all around for a latch. I flick it open once I find it and push the barrier back until it swings wide enough to reveal the rocky path ahead.

It looks like a long driveway, but where it leads to I'm not sure. A voice inside my head warns me to turn around, get back in my car, and to keep moving north without looking back. However my gut twists and kicks with pure intent: follow the road to the end. The camouflaged gate wasn't meant to be seen, but somehow I saw it out of pure coincidence. I probably wasn't meant to survive the bombing of my city, but I did. Because I trusted my instincts. And beforehand when that guy tried to shoot me... if I hadn't moved the hammer behind my back in the split second he'd been turned, I'd be dead. Surely. But I wasn't - because I listened to my gut.

The instincts I've felt have kept me alive thus far.

So while walking backwards to the car, I decide to listen to them once more.

I sit myself down quickly and move my car forward and through the gate. Once I'm a bit away from it, I jump out again and seal the gate shut. It was most likely hidden for a reason, and while I was curious, I was also trying to respect whoever owned this property at the same time. If there was anyone at the end of the trail, I would leave immediately. There was no way to tell who was volatile or not right now and I couldn't take any hardcore risks, such as exposing myself to strangers.

I am back in my seat within a couple seconds, slowly coasting up and down steep hills of the gravel driveway. I keep my eyes peeled for a building or sign of some sort, and after a few minutes, I'm left wondering if this was all for naught and if the trail was blocked off because it leads to absolutely nowhere.

I'm a stubborn asshole though, so I keep driving.

After about another minute, the small road narrows even further. The trees seem to enclose around me, the density of the forest nearly eerie. Just when I'm about to say _fuck it_ and attempt to turn around, the outline of a brown building in the distance starts to take shape. And as I get closer I realize it's not just a building, but a tiny cabin.

The driveway dips one more time before it widens into a grassy clearing about a football field away from the small house. The mass of wooden logs sits directly in the middle of the large open space, surrounded by trees and tall grass infested with wildflowers. There were no cars parked out front, and I didn't see a carport or garage attached to the cabin. I assume nobody is home and that they haven't been for a very, very long time.

But then I think of yesterday morning and how that homeless man had been knocked out for snooping around where his nose didn't belong. He thought the house had been empty but he was wrong and paid for the consequences. I couldn't make the same mistake here.

I slow to a stop and shift to park on the outskirts of the clearing. My gun had been resting in the cup holder and I wrap my fingers around it quickly and then stuff it into my waistband, hoping I wouldn't have to use it but knowing I would if I had to defend myself. I take the key out of the ignition and, still cautious of my environment, scan the trees one more time while safely in my car before opening up the door and stepping out onto thick, plush grass. My feet sink in and I almost moan. The nature here was unreal, I could smell just how clean and fresh the air is - not a hint of pollution with all these trees around.

I breathe in a huge gulp of it and then proceed to shut my car door, locking the rest of them as silently as possible.

The birds serenade to me as I quietly walk away from the Volvo and towards the cabin. Their delicate songs reach my ears and somewhat relaxes my tense movements. I keep my thumb on the edge of my jeans and it comforts me knowing that if I needed to, I could have the gun out, cocked and aimed within a matter of seconds. I wasn't looking to hurt anyone, I just really didn't want to die after all I've gone through to get this far.

I'm practically at the front door when I see a lump in the ground on my left. My head turns a bit, distracted, and I take in a slightly risen mound of dirt in a small area clear of grass. It looked like it had recently been dug up and then placed back over.

I stare at it in confusion for a moment until the length and width of it begins to make sense.

It was a grave. An unmarked one.

A chill goes down my spine.

My heart beats quicker, but I continue in my quest and keep my steps quiet as I circle the cabin and slyly peer into the mildew-stained windows. I couldn't see much but I sensed no movement coming from inside and I hum in thought. Maybe the person who was here days ago to bury whoever died dipped as soon as they were done. My heart slows and relief floods through me that I am, in fact, alone.

I mean, except for the supposed corpse in the front yard.

Huffing, I walk around all four walls of the cabin, soon coming to a stop at the front door. My fingers shake as they reach for the handle, but I refuse to acknowledge the tremors. I've been through much worse than some creepy cottage in the middle of nowhere. My fingers touch the circular metal handle and twist it, attempting to open the door to no avail. It was locked.

I try again a little harder, and nope, still locked. My chest expands with my frustrated sigh, and I look down at the door, frowning when I noticed there doesn't seem to be a deadbolt. A small smile creeps onto my face with that passing thought. My hand lifts from the knob and pats down my back pocket, and when I feel the small wallet, I take it out and bring it to the front of me, extracting a debit card before returning it to my jeans pocket.

Emmett had taught me this at a party once, but I never really thought I'd have a reason to use it.

I grip the card in my left hand and slip it between the crack of the door and the frame around it, pushing it in as far as it could go. My right hand reaches for the handle and in one fluid motion, I slide the card down while simultaneously twisting the knob. It unlocks with a light click and _viola_ , the door was swinging open. And though I'm eager, I scope out the interior first before I decide to enter.

The inside is musty and basically empty except for an average-sized bed, a tiny kitchen and a giant round rug that takes up almost the entirety of the space on the floor. There doesn't seem to be any electricity, but even then, it doesn't matter to me. It looks safe and... peaceful, I guess. Simple; quaint. No doubt probably the only place in the whole country that I'd feel safe sleeping in.

Without much hesitation, I decide to move my things in. Just for the night. I replace the dusty blanket on the bed with clean ones from the trunk and take the yellowing linen off the pillow, wrapping another fresh blanket around it to form a pillowcase. I quickly change into sleep clothes and lay down once I'm settled and the door is locked, my aching body completely molding into the mattress. I munch on the saltine crackers and peanut butter for a bit, washing them down with water.

My eyes and head start to feel heavy as I lay there thoroughly relaxed, and even though it's hardly six o'clock in the evening, I know I'll sleep until at least late the next morning. My body numbs, each inhale and exhale becoming slower and slower and slower...

And at the exact second I'm taken by my dreams, I swear I hear the soft melody of someone singing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Love writing a determined E's POV. Let me know your thoughts! -sondor


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Stephenie Meyers owns all rights - no copyright infringement intended. I also don't own any songs by Lord Huron or Cigarettes After Sex.

 **END OF US**

* * *

 _Got the music in you baby, tell me why...  
_ -Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex

* * *

(EPOV)

" _Dad? Where are the batteries?"_

 _A pale-blonde head pokes out of the stairwell closet door and voices out, "in the garage, next to the nail gun," before disappearing again._

 _I walk over towards him with an amused smile and cross my arms, leaning against the door-frame. "Thanks. What are you doing?" It kind of looked like he was sorting through boxes and in the process of breaking down empty ones. A piece of his fine hair clings to the sweat on his forehead and he brushes it back with the back of his hand before looking up at his only son with a grin._

" _Clearing out this clutter for your mother." He snorts at his rhyme and I roll my eyes. "Some of the stuff in here hasn't been used since before you were born - so out they go."_

 _Nearly half the boxes are in a designated trash pile. The mountain of crap nearly touch the ceiling with how much there is, so I offer to take some to the garage to give him more room to work with. My dad thanks me kindly and I make a couple trips to and back until the space is clear of cardboard. On my last trip from the garage, my mom strolls through the front door with a smile on her face and what looked to be a clear, plastic suitcase in her hand._

 _She kisses me on the cheek and then ducks into the small area where my dad is to give him a quick peck in greeting. "Looking great in here, boys."_

 _We grin at her almost identically before dad gestures to the thing in her grip. "Whatcha got there sweet tits?"_

 _I instantly cringe at the nickname but my mom giggles and swats at his shoulder. "It's an emergency kit. For, well… emergencies."_

 _My dad hums. "Looks more like a doctor's briefcase."_

 _His wife rolls her eyes, probably where I get it from, and then sets the kit down against the wall. "You would know. Leave it in here when you're done, please? I have to go freshen up for my dinner date with Emily." Dad gives her a pout face and she swoops in to kiss him on his pushed out bottom lip. He immediately pulls her closer, like a magnet. A groan rumbles through my chest as I cover my eyes and complain loudly about PDA and my dislike of it - but on the inside, I'm warm from the at the obvious love they still share after a whopping twenty-two years together._

 _Mom's tinkering laugh follows her as she slides by me and practically skips up the stairs. My dad watches after her with a silly smile on his face and then looks down at the plastic case. "The doctor in me is upset she thought to bring home an emergency kit before I could."_

 _I chuckled at that one. "Didn't you know mom wears the pants?"_

 _"Oh, I've always known that." He's still looking down at the emergency kit and eventually he brings it into his lap to inspect the contents. He stares inside for a weirdly long amount of time. I'm about to ask him if he's okay when he asks, "Edward?" Then he lifts his eyes to mine and I nod for him to continue. "Have we ever told you what to do if there ever_ is _an emergency?"_

 _What, like an earthquake? "Uh... get out of the house and go to safe ground?"_

 _Dad's brows crease. "Well, yes, if it's on fire. But what I'm trying to ask you is if the country ever goes into a state of emergency, do you know what to do? Where to go?"_

 _He's kind of concerning me with these questions but I humor him and try to answer truthfully. "Get as far away from the country as possible?" That would be what I'd do. I couldn't imagine it ever happening, though._

 _"If you know you're not safe where you are, then yes. You have to be smart about it though, pack things that will help you in the long-run but not slow you down. And then once you're sure you have the essentials for survival, you need to escape the country as safely and as fast as possible."_

 _"Mexico?"_

 _He shakes his head. "No, not Mexico. It may be closer, but it's also highly populated. Whatever is happening in America could hypothetically be happening there, as well." Dad chews on his cheek, something I've seen him do all my life. He only does it when he's seriously thinking and it makes me wonder what's going through his brain. "I'd say Canada would be your best bet. Even though it's pretty far away, it's relatively safe and there are many parts throughout the country that have little to no people."_

 _"North?"_

 _"Yes, go North."_

 _Okay? "Why are we even talking about this?"_

 _"You asked me the same thing when your mom made me talk to you about sexual inter-"_

 _"Alright, I get it! Jesus! You and your filter today," I grumble, cringing that the words_ mom _and_ sexual _were used in the same sentence._

 _Dad laughs outright and reaches from his sitting position to lightly punch my leg. "You're too easy, son." Then he sighs. "But honestly, I just thought I'd give you guidance in the event I'm not there and something does go wrong. God forbid if that ever happens, but if it_ does _, just promise me that you'll do one thing above all else."_

 _I nod and listen._

 _"Stay calm."_

* * *

My dream of a memory wakes me immediately once it's over. I catch my breath for a second, my emotions whirling at seeing both of my parents. It all seemed so real, like I could reach out and touch my dad's arm. I swear I felt the warmth of mom's lips on my cheek, felt the weight of the cardboard in my hands as I carried it to the garage. It was a sheer mind-fuck waking up and expecting to see the dark blue of my room but instead seeing the dusty grey walls of the cabin. The sheets I'm wrapped in smell nothing of home, more like old man, and for some reason that causes tears to form in my eyes.

I scrub a hand over my face and into my hair. The dream wasn't real, but the advice my dad gave me was.

Four little words had kept me breathing through this all. If him and I never stopped to have that random talk, it's very possible that I wouldn't be here in this tiny cabin.

With all the commotion going on in the last couple of days, I hadn't had much time to sit and think about where the two of them were or if they were safe - alive, even. I shake my head violently at the thought of never seeing them again. Sweden was thousands of miles away from the HO8 outbreak, and though the virus does spread quickly, I assume it would take weeks for it to reach that far East. And that's what I repeat to myself over and over, but of course, at this point, I know anything could happen.

My eyes sting with tears that I struggle to hold back and I press the heel of my palms roughly against my face to smother them.

My parents were okay. They _had_ to be.

My hands lift away from my cheeks, and I sigh, deep and long, before looking over at the only window. Sunlight streams through in large pockets, and I know I've slept until noon at the earliest. My muscles are sore and taut underneath my bruised skin; even moving my arms causes me to flinch from the strained pull I feel from doing so. Taking another breath, I slowly shift the blanket off of me and swivel my legs around to plant the balls of my feet on the floor.

It was pretty cold last night, so I had fallen asleep wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt. The sun being out today was unexpected, and now I was fighting a sweat from the heat emitting within the room. God, it was stifling in here. Though my tired arms protest, I tug my shirt over my head and rub it against the perspiration gathering on my forehead. My legs protest just as much when I walk over to the window and shimmy it up halfway, easing the near suffocation I feel as a cool breeze wafts inside.

I breathe in the fresh air and turn towards the duffel bag for breakfast.

Just as my fingers wrap around a can of sliced pears, I hear it.

A noise.

No - not just any noise... singing. It was sweeter than a bird's song and so muffled it was basically a hum. My breath catches as I listen, something about it hauntingly familiar, like I've heard it once before. But no matter how hard I try to remember, I can't exactly pinpoint when or where.

I'm still bent over my bag, frozen in position as I concentrate on the soft sounds. Not once do I think to grab the gun underneath my pillow, but instead I'm full of buzzing curiosity. Where was it coming from? Did the last inhabitant here leave a music player somewhere?

Suddenly the melody stops, and like a curse being broken, I'm able to move again.

My hand gently places the can back down in the bag as I swivel my feet around to check out the room more closely. I silently walk over to the small kitchenette, opening and searching through the tiny cupboards, and then closing them in defeat when I don't find a thing. _Damn_. There was nothing else in here except the rug and the bed. There isn't a single explanation for the singing I heard and it further adds to my confusion. Could someone possibly be outside?

This time I stare at my pillow in thought for a second before reaching for the gun hidden under it and tucking it into my waistband. Better safe than sorry. And it isn't until after I've unlocked the front door and taken a quick trip around the perimeter of the cabin that I can answer no, there was no one outside. No footprints, no car tracks, nothing.

I walk back through the threshold and seal the door shut once more, gripping at my hair nervously.

Was I going insane? Was this the first symptom of the virus - hallucinations?

I take a huge breath and as I'm releasing it, the tinkling melody starts up again. It sounds slightly louder from where I'm standing next to the door and I strain my ears to locate where it's coming from. It sounds real enough, not like I'm imagining it, and I squeeze my eyes shut to focus solely on the soft tune.

Is it... was it coming from... below me?

My hand releases it's abuse on my hair as I stare down at the large, green rug adorning the floor.

Impossible.

There's no way...

Yet as I lower myself to my knees and bring the side of my face parallel with the ground, I know that my train of thought is leading me in the right direction. The singing seems more pronounced here at this level than when I'm standing upright.

My breathing becomes labored when the song stops again, like it knows I'm listening, and it's in that moment that it finally clicks in my brain.

There has to be another floor to this cabin. A basement, maybe.

That's the only plausible explanation.

Rising back to my full height, I quietly move to the corner walls nearest me and reach down to finger the edge of the rug. My heart rattles within my chest like loose coins inside a dryer, sporadic and loud. I don't why it's acting like this, considering all I've gone through to get here, so I try to get my shit together and mentally pump myself up. _Come on Edward, don't be such a pussy._ Slowly, I bring my thumb to join my pointer, clenching the raggedy material between them and holding my breath as I bunch it upwards and away from the corner. The rug is so damned huge that I have to keep pushing areas of it away as I search the ground underneath it for... for what, I'm not exactly sure.

It's when I lift away the flap of the rug near the kitchenette that I find it - _it_ being a small hidden, flat door seamlessly blending in with the wooden planks which make up the flooring of the cabin. The rug still clutched in my grip falls to the ground as I stare down at what basically looks like a square trap door. _The fuck..._

There's no lock on the inverted handle and temptation calls to me, urging me to discover what's on the other side.

"Do I...?" Do I open it? I definitely want to, evident by my fingers twitching with intent. But for some reason, I felt like Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Last Ark when he's standing at the alter with sweat running off his brow, just about to switch out the precious Golden Idol for a bag of sand. There's no statue here in this shitty little cabin but the sentiment is the same - do I risk it?

When the word _risk_ filters through my thoughts, I get a flashback of Emmett and I at some random senior party. Like clockwork at events such as those, he had been trying to get me to talk to some girls gawking at us from across the room. He would say, "risk it to get the biscuit," and then wiggle his bushy eyebrows. I would usually roll my eyes and ignore him. But now, his stupid phrase was all that I could hear and it was inching me on, my hand getting closer and closer to the handle dipping into the floor.

My fingers curl around the wood and though my heart drops, I tug hard. It's heavier to lift than I originally thought, and I actually have to bring my other hand in to pull on it, grunting with the effort of heaving the door open. Once I have it as far back as it will go, I carefully peer behind it.

 _Huh_. That's why it was so heavy. A solid foot of concrete is attached to the belly of the wooden door. And as I look down, I'm stunned to see a human-sized steel tube going about a dozen feet into the ground. A metal ladder is attached to one side that follow it all the way to the bottom.

I'm silent for a moment, absorbing my findings. _Did I just discover a fucking underground bunker?_

"Shit," I mutter, keeping one hand on the concrete door and the other shooting up like a rocket to tangle into my hair and _pull pull pull_ on the tresses. My thoughts jumble quick from one to another, imagining all the possible actions I could take. There's really only two. Go down the ladder, or shut the door and leave.

The second option just doesn't seem like it's a feasible prospect for me at the moment, as my legs are frozen crouched next to the open hole in the floor. My curiosity has always been insatiable to say the least, and I knew without a doubt that I was going down that ladder. I had to see where it led to.

I had the means to protect myself if it came down to that. Another person may have left once they saw that hidden door. But what I pictured in my head was an old man sitting in his favorite chair inside the bunker, listening to feminine lullabies to make him feel not so alone. And for some reason that image compelled me to lift my foot and twist my body so I could place myself upon the first rung of the ladder. I felt an unwavering need to thank whoever lived here for supplying me with shelter for the night, even if they did so unknowingly.

I _really_ hope they don't mind a visitor.

With each step down, the lower I go into the cylinder tube. My eyes eventually become parallel with the floor, getting a bug's eye-view on the room, before I take another step down and it's gone from my sight completely. There's a small button embedded in the wall on my left, and I'm not sure what it does so I leave it alone and keep moving.

I'm over six feet tall so it doesn't take very long to get to the bottom, and when I do, my feet find purchase on the floor softly.

I turn around to face a short, narrow hallway leading to a steel door enclosing a very small, square window. I glance at it for a second before looking up at the circle shaped outline of the cabin ceiling. It feels like I'm in a completely different world, and a strong part of me loves the sensation while the other half is quiet and cautious. I'm still very aware of the gun in my waistband and the fact that I may have to use it if things turn ugly.

It's bloody hot in this little area and sweat begins to form on the back of my neck. I swipe my hand at it, afterwards rubbing the moisture on my sweatpants, before heaving a sigh and shuffling quietly towards the metal door. I get close enough to see through the thick glass of the window, peering left and right, but only seeing plain, white walls in return.

My heart feels like a herd of galloping stallions when my hand finally reaches out for the handle.

It turns easily when my fingers grasp it, surprisingly unlocked, and the thick door swings open with little effort.

And as I'm thinking _should I really be doing this_ , a sweet voice croons out from further inside the bunker. I'm in an immediate trance; the music so hauntingly beautiful that goosebumps scatter across my entire body. My feet seem have a mind of their own, and before I know it, I'm taking silent steps past the threshold and walking towards the familiar melody. It's gorgeous and thick with emotion, and the words start to shape as I get closer to where it's coming from.

" _I had all and then most of you,_

 _some and now none of you._

 _Take me back to the night we met."_

The hallway I'm slowly walking down opens to a large room. And though there's two couches and an enormous flat screen TV that takes up most of the area, all of my attention zones in on a slender girl, a young woman of the petite variety, swaying back and forth to the rhythm she makes with her voice.

 _"I don't know what I'm supposed to do..._

 _Haunted by the ghost you._

 _Oh, take me back to the night we met."_

Her long and thick, maple brown hair rests just below the middle of her back and sways alluring over the swell of her pert ass. The sight literally stops me in my tracks, one foot paused in front of the other. If she were a painting, that _southern_ part of her would be the focal point - and she would, without a doubt, be more popular than Mona Lisa ever was.

I feel bad ogling a stranger though so I avert my eyes conveniently at the same time she turns her head to the side.

She still hasn't noticed me, a probable result of her eyes being closed, so I take a couple moments to observe the soft slope of her forehead and the gentle curve of her small, feminine nose. And when her mouth opens slightly to hum a couple more notes of the song, I'm drawn to the motion of her lips parting and then closing together. Even from across the room and viewing from the side, I could tell how supple and invitingly kissable they were.

 _Fuck_.

Suddenly, she gasps mid-verse and whips her head in my direction.

 _Shit shit shit, did I say that out loud?_

Eyes drowning in a mixture of whiskey mead and swirling chocolate catch hold of mine. I see pure alarm reflecting back as she takes an unsteady step towards the wall behind her, and I raise my arms in the "I mean no harm" gesture to calm her. I'm not sure if it works though because her cheeks ignite with a fiery blush and she narrows her almond-shaped eyes at me. It's kind of adorable, like a kitten pretending to be a tiger.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Her voice sounds strong and unfazed on the surface but I can catch the underlying tone of terror that she tries to hide. I could only imagine that this was every woman's nightmare - being caught alone and unaware by a strange man.

Hoping to ease her discomfort right away, I give her my full name to hopefully emphasize that I have nothing to hide.

"My name is Edward Cullen, " I announce, still holding my hands above my head. "I'd been driving yesterday and found your cabin by accident. At the time I didn't think anyone was home, so I slept upstairs for the night."

She stares at me in silence, her eyes taking on a sort of glazed look.

Concerned she may be going into shock, I rush to explain myself further. "I was going to leave once I woke up, I swear. I just heard... noises, and couldn't help but investigate. And then I found this bunker...but in my head I saw an old man all alone, not a..." When I realize how idiotic my babbling must sound, my jaw snaps shut, sealing my vocal chords from embarrassing me any further as I wait for her to respond. She doesn't though and I have to fill the tense silence between us with _something_.

I settle on saying, "I just wanted to thank you, I guess."

This time her lips part as her eyebrows crease. "Thank _me_?"

"Yeah," I answer, lifting one side of my mouth into a tiny smile. "You obviously weren't aware that I spent the night up there but even then, I appreciate it... so thank you."

The girl swallows and the red blush that had bloomed on her face settles to a dusty pink. "B-but how did you get in?"

I frown. "I didn't damage anything, if that's what you're worried about. I used my debit card to unlock the front door."

She considers that for a moment and then her eyes flicker down my body. "A-and that?" She nods her head at me, her tone hitching higher like she was nervous.

Confused, I look down at myself and inwardly curse a million times at myself. _Why_ hadn't I put a shirt on before I came down here? No wonder she had been so fucking scared! "Uh... the sun came out," is my brilliant response, and I can feel the tip of my ears burn in embarrassment. I'm awed to see her blush come back full bloom, mimicking mine.

"No, not that... the -um, the _gun_ ," she mumbles and then bites down on her bottom lip.

My entire body instantly reacts to her doing that. It surprises the hell out me with it's intensity. I've been attracted to girls before, sure, but this was a whole different feeling than what I'm used to. I've seen girls bite their lips in an attempt to be attractive, but almost every time it would look overdone and fake because they tried too hard. This girl does it naturally, like it's something she does when she's nervous, similar to how I fuck with my hair when I'm frustrated.

Her teeth release their hold on her lip and her small, pink tongue darts out to swipe over the indentation. _Damn_. I curl my fingers into fists and think about Emmett after eating Mexican food to distract myself from the slamming attraction I feel towards this stranger. It works the second I hear his gassy farts echoing inside my head.

I don't realize how silent it is in the room until she takes a shaky breath in, and it's then I realize she'd asked me about the gun.

"It's not mine," I say, mentally groaning and wanting to smack myself once the words are out. "I-I mean it's mine, but also not mine. Some guy tried to steal my shit and shoot me with it so I... took it from him." Giving her the PG rated explanation wasn't lying, right? Isn't that what they call sugar-coating? Regardless, I finish by assuring her that, "I'd only ever use it to defend myself." And to put action behind my words, I very, very slowly grip the gun by two fingers and shimmy it out of my waistband. Once it's out, I bend at the knees and deliberately place it on the floor away from reach. We're holding eye contact with each other the entire time and to solidify my honest intentions, I side-step carefully to the other wall and then lean against it, crossing my arms to cover up some of my bare chest.

She remains as silent as a winter night, and I wished more than anything to be able to read her thoughts. It almost feels like she's assessing me with her eyes and it's making me increasingly nervous, especially since I'm sans shirt. Do I leave or stand here until she says something? Did I even want to leave if she doesn't? I assume she has this bunker to herself and that she is aware of what's going on in the world - at least some of it, anyways. Maybe she's still in shock from it all.

Not that women are defenseless, but somehow taking off seemed all sorts of wrong to me, like I'd be abandoning her if I did.

I know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in talking to her a little more. I have never once in my life gone this long without talking to another human being, and a large part of me yearned for that normalcy of having an ordinary conversation. In fact, I craved it. From her. But she's being stubborn and not saying a word and the silence was near killing me.

"What's your name?" I eventually ask.

She opens her mouth to speak and I perk up until she closes her lips again and gives me a steely look. _Okay..._ But then she throws a pointed glance at the gun laying on the ground and then looks back into my eyes, drawing her eyebrows together so a tiny 'v' appears between them. My thumb twitches to smooth it out. I try to put two and two together, and the best I can come up with is that she doesn't want a weapon like that in her home. Actually, I'm fairly sure that's what her pseudo sign-language meant.

"Okay," I concede. I take a couple measured steps to the gun and unhurriedly pick it up, murmuring, "I'll be right back," and then half-jogged down the hallway, finding my way up the ladder quickly. It makes perfectly good sense why she wouldn't want a loaded weapon between her and a stranger. If I were her, I wouldn't trust me either - not that I'm not dependable, this situation was just unique.

And that's what I tell myself when I place the gun back under my pillow. I double check that the front door is locked and then reach into my bag for a clean shirt, pulling it over my head before walking over to the hole in the ground. I get down the ladder in seconds and as I walk down the hallway, I try to make myself appear not as anxious as I feel.

She's right where I left her, leaning against the far wall with her hands clasped in front of her. She looks distracted in her thoughts and I want to take a quick second while she's unaware to admire the heart-shape of her face, but apparently I'm not as quiet as I think because her head raises the second I step into the room.

"Isabella," she says quietly, stunning me as the answer to my earlier question rolls off of her lips. "But call me Bella."

I smile widely. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bella."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hope we enjoyed this chapter! The song B was singing is The Night We Met by Lord Huron. Thanks for reading :) -sondor


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